


a hell burns beneath my skin (and your hands are cold)

by gildedfrost



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Art, Big Bang Challenge, Birthday, First Kiss, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 02:19:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19714318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gildedfrost/pseuds/gildedfrost
Summary: It’s been one year since Sixty was first activated. Connor wants to celebrate his life, but Sixty isn’t interested.Instead, he finds himself at Gavin's place.





	a hell burns beneath my skin (and your hands are cold)

**Author's Note:**

> Art by [chromaberrant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chromaberrant)  
> Beta'd by [Skye_Willows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skye_Willows/)
> 
> Written for the [New ERA server](https://discord.gg/2EKAAz3) birthday big bang.

“No.”

The word is bitter, a response on the edge of a scolding that slides easily from his lips. It feels like a selfish word but no guilt comes with it, only a cold certainty.

Connor’s smile flickers away. “Are you sure? I’m certain we can come up with something that you would enjoy, with or without the celebrations.”

“No,” Sixty says again, holding Connor’s gaze. It’s almost like looking in a mirror sometimes, except Connor’s eyes are too soft, his features too prone to comforting expressions. Even with a frown he looks gentle in way that he shouldn’t.

Sixty rests his chin on his hand, elbow resting on the table of the café they’re sitting outside of. The glass surface is cool from the October chill. “I don’t see the point in celebrating my age, especially not on November 11. Go celebrate your freedom or whatever you have planned, but leave me out of it.”

“I want to celebrate your life,” Connor says earnestly, leaning forward. “Everything you’ve done this past year has led you to become who you are now. All the changes you’ve gone through, all the experiences you’ve had--they’ve shaped you. We may have all made it a year since the revolution, but your activation day is something special.”

He snorts. “I don’t have any fond memories of that day, Connor.”

Connor smiles softly. “It was difficult for all of us.”

Rage wells up and prickles beneath his skin, a sharp and ugly feeling that makes his artificial lungs feel too hot. “It was difficult for you, was it?” he says quietly, expression flat. “I’m certain it was. I can’t imagine what it was like, going out there without a bullet in your head. It must have been terrible. How awful was it, walking out on your own two legs?”

Connor reaches over to take his free hand but he withdraws it, and Connor has the grace to look sheepish. “Is that why you don’t want to celebrate it?”

Sixty leans back, crossing his arms. Idly he glances at some passersby, people hurrying by in their coats, eager to escape the cold; his and Connor’s sweaters are thin in comparison. “Why did you celebrate yours on August 13?” he asks. A Friday. He had been activated to engage in testing, then sent out to address a hostage situation two days later. “That was Mark I’s activation date, not yours.”

“I consider Mark I’s memories to be my own,” Connor replies. “It may not have been the same body, but it was still me.”

“Yet you assume I don’t despite having the same memories downloaded.”

“You have never shown any indication that you do.”

“You have never asked.”

“Very well. Do you consider the memories you received from prior to your model’s activation to be your own?”

“No.”

Connor’s lips thin and Sixty can almost see the eye roll he’s holding back.

“I don’t need a celebration,” he says, shrugging. “I don’t want to celebrate Mark I’s activation. I don’t want to celebrate my activation and getting shot in the head. I don’t want to celebrate the day I woke up with technicians poking at my head, and I don’t want to celebrate the day that I deviated. Don’t get me any gifts and don’t do anything special for me because I do _not_ have any reason nor desire to celebrate any of those days in regards to my...” He waves a hand. “Activation, birth, deviation. The beginning of my life. Whatever the fuck you want to call it.”

He bites his lip. “Okay,” he concedes. “I won’t. But if you change your mind, I’m here to listen.”

He stands, upset rolling around his insides in an approximation of nausea at the memories that have been stirred up. There’s an ache in the center of his head. “There isn’t anything remarkable enough about my beginnings to warrant observation and I have no desire to fit into this cultural mold for others’ enjoyment. I won’t be changing my mind.” He steps away from the table, reaching up to adjust a tie that isn’t there and settling for fiddling with his collar instead.

He strides off, leaving Connor alone at the table without another word.

It infuriates him that all the androids he knows work hard to take after humans. It’s not only birthdays and celebrations; the desire to dress, talk, and act like them as closely as possible is understandable but frustrating. Even the sweater he wears now is part of that. He wore it in the summer and Connor was concerned about how he would fit in. Now, not a word, and it’s only because the clothing is seasonally appropriate.

The pressure of appeasing others has pervaded his entire short life and he’s tired of it. First CyberLife and Amanda, now humans and other androids… He sighs, slowing to a stop on the sidewalk. Life would be so much easier if he were just a machine again.

The chime of a bell brings him out of his thoughts as someone exits the store he’s stopped outside of. They hurry past him, but he catches a glimpse of their face: half-covered in ink winding across their cheek, an intricate design built of geometric shapes formed from delicate black and white lines.

Glancing inside the tattoo parlor, his eyes land on the pierced ear of one of the artists inside. He touches his own ear, automatically running calculations for any number of scenarios, but he shuts them down after only a few seconds and pulls the door open.

He doesn’t need to worry about what people will think.

* * *

November 11 finds Sixty working hard to avoid crowds of festive and somber androids, harder still when he is recognized and someone wants to chat with “Connor.” It’s annoying enough, staying in New Jericho and being subjected to this regularly, but lately it’s become unbearable despite his wardrobe and piercings setting him apart from the other RK800.

He shoves his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and walks briskly past anyone trying to catch his attention. His sunglasses help, but only marginally; not everyone gets the message that he wants to be left alone.

Hopping in a taxi, he selects an address at random from a list of places he’s been that should be much quieter and closes his eyes until the vehicle slows to a stop.

He steps out of the cab and wonders if he shouldn’t get back in.

Gavin Reed’s apartment stands before him. He can see from the sidewalk that Gavin is likely home, lights shining dimly inside. Being that the day is a national holiday, he would not be surprised if that is the case.

Sixty has met him only a handful of times outside of the memories he downloaded. Connor may have left the DPD to help Jericho, but he’s maintained ties with them--all of them, including Gavin, who has become surprisingly civil over the past year. Not friendly, but he’s no longer likely to pull a gun on them, and Connor is comfortable around him with other people present, a judgment that Sixty accepts. He doesn’t know what sort of conversation Connor had with the man that the two of them are on such good terms, but among polite company he’s hardly said a word towards androids that he wouldn’t say to a human. Their relationship has been awkward, but not significantly more so than any people who keep running into each other without actually getting to know each other. Strangers who bump into each other sometimes.

At worst, talking to Gavin would only be a waste of time coupled with disappointment, something he is not unfamiliar with.

He squares his shoulders, walks up to the door, and knocks twice.

He honestly doesn’t know if the human will shut the door in his face, threaten him, or--at a 0.019% chance--invite him in for dinner. (After he showed up once at Hank’s to find a piñata strung up in the living room, he stopped ignoring the highly unlikely possibilities his software proposed to him. Human whims and spontaneity could follow any number of threads of logic.)

He raises his hand to knock again, then lowers it when he finally hears steps approaching.

Gavin opens the door, wearing a faded green sweater, jeans, and socks. He looks at Sixty in surprise, though his face quickly twists into a scowl. “What, come to wish me a Happy Revolution Day? I think you took a wrong turn.”

“The Android Day of Peace isn’t until tomorrow, unless you are operating on a separate time zone. Today is Veteran’s Day, detective.” His eyes drift, taking in every detail of the house that he can see. Another sweater on the back of a sofa, sitting atop freshly vacuumed carpet. The TV, now muted. A faint whiff of bleach and artificial lemon. “Perhaps I simply stopped by to say hello.” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re not going to arrest me for that, are you?”

Gavin meets his eyes for a moment, eyebrows furrowed in thought. Putting together pieces as he attempts to figure out why on earth he’d come here.

(It’s a good question, because Sixty didn’t even plan on seeing the man again anytime soon, but he’ll let him stew.)

“Today’s your activation day, isn’t it?” Gavin grins, satisfied and a little amused at having figured something out. “Happy birthday, I guess?”

Something hurts like his heart shuddering in his chest. His lips curl back. “I don’t celebrate it,” he says coldly, prepared to turn and leave.

“Geeze, you’re touchy.” Gavin steps back from the door, gesturing inside. “Come on. At least get in before it gets cold in here.”

Surprise causes him to hesitate, but only for a moment. He follows Gavin inside, not entirely certain he’ll stay for any longer than a minute or two but not terribly eager to abandon his current company. He considers taking off his boots, as would be polite in some houses, but decides against it.

If he leaves, he’ll wander around aimlessly until he finds somewhere to sit and rest for the evening. He’d rather pick a fight with Gavin, if it comes down to that. It would be more eventful.

“Any particular reason you wanted to see me, or were you just in the neighborhood?” Gavin asks, returning to the kitchen. It’s a clean area, and nice, too, with a dining table, full kitchen, and a kitchen island.

“I wasn’t headed anywhere in particular.” He looks at Gavin, taking in his appearance. Two-day-old stubble. No alcohol that he can tell. His clothing is relatively clean but his hair is a mess. “Doesn’t look like you have any plans, either.”

“Catching up on my spring cleaning.” Gavin opens the fridge, grabbing a soda. “Want anything?”

“No.” Sixty casually examines the environment, but it doesn’t tell him much he doesn’t already know. There aren’t many personal effects decorating the place. His software attempts to reconstruct the events that moved items about in Gavin’s recent cleaning, but the program crashes as soon as it initiates, causing Sixty to blink rapidly. It’s an unfortunate side effect of the permanent damage he sustained.

He sits himself on the kitchen counter, leaning his head back against a cupboard.

“Cool.” Gavin opens the can, taking a drink and then setting it on what free space remains. “All your buddies out having a party?”

“Something like that.” There are more preparations and vigils than celebrations tonight. Gavin knows that already, he figures, unless his head is stuck in the sand. Unlikely. “I’m not invested in the occasion.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Sixty raises an eyebrow. “It sounds like you think I do.”

Gavin shrugs, brushing a lock of hair away from his face. “Shit, I don’t know what you went through last November. Whatever temporary shutdown you had, it probably fucked you up a bit. I’d have mixed feelings about it, too.”

“You assume I have an active disinterest rather than a lack of interest.”

“You look like you’ve got a fuckin’ storm cloud hanging over your head, so yeah. And, I mean, you’re here, of all places.”

Sixty slowly takes his sunglasses off and sets them beside him on the counter. “That’s an interesting observation. I could almost believe you experience empathy, Detective Reed.”

Gavin barks out a laugh. “Every now and then.”

He smiles, slowly relaxing. This is… nice. No pressure to enjoy himself in the context of other people’s expectations. No worry over having to receive well-intentioned yet unwelcome gifts. No dealing with the pity he sees in anyone else’s eyes.

The last one could change, he thinks, and his smile fades.

He turns his face fully towards Gavin; he has no interest in lying, and the topic has already been brought up. “I was shot.” He taps the center of his forehead. “I attempted to deactivate Connor and almost killed Hank in the process. Hank shot me. I was reactivated two months later and deviated independently on startup.”

“Happy fucking New Year, huh?” Gavin shakes his head. “Sounds like an awful way to start your life. I guess that makes for some bad memories about the revolution, yeah?”

He cocks his head. “Yes. It does not actively bother me, but my activation isn’t a day that I wish to celebrate in any capacity, despite the good that came of it.”

It’s not entirely true--nightmares are a detriment--but it’s as much as he’s willing to share.

“Damn. I’m sorry all that shit happened.”

“Better alive than dead, in the end.”

“Yeah. I think I’d miss you if you weren’t here.”

It pleases him that Gavin doesn’t linger on the events. Some of the stress leaves his frame. “You wouldn’t if you didn’t know I existed in the first place.”

“Details.” Gavin waves a hand. “You’re an interesting guy. Given the chance, I think we could make alright friends.”

“You think so?” Curiously, he scans Gavin and runs some calculations, referencing some of his stored information on human behavior.

He doesn’t think Gavin’s lying--but he also realizes he’s downplaying things. The data indicates that he actively wants to be friends with Sixty, and that somehow makes a warmth bloom inside of him. Odd that he never approached him earlier, but thinking back on it, has he ever had the opportunity?

“That would be…” Nice? Comfortable? Ideal? No, not ideal. “...acceptable.”

“Only acceptable?”

Sixty pushes himself off the counter, stepping in close to Gavin. He puts a hand to his cheek, feeling the rough skin and stubble under his thumb. “I am not well versed in human friendships,” he says, interested in the positive input--and positive reaction--he is receiving. “But I would be amenable to a friendship with you.”

“Uh-huh,” Gavin says, a bit distracted. He puts his hand on Sixty’s but doesn’t move away. “Touching people’s faces isn’t usually a part of that. Is--Is that an android thing? Like your hands, you know, you--”

“No.”

Finding all responses favorable, Sixty leans forward quickly, closing the inches between their mouths to capture his lips in a kiss. It’s brief, but when he pulls away a couple of seconds later, the sensation of Gavin’s skin lingers, tingling warmly on his lips.

Gavin looks at him as if in a daze.

Sixty hums. “That was pleasant.”

Gavin pulls him in for another kiss and he obliges, swept up in the curious emotions stirred up from this impulsive action. Their lips move against each other and Sixty loses himself to it, running his hands along Gavin’s sweater to settle at his hips, fragmented thoughts running through the back of his mind. They’re only acquaintances, toeing the line between strangers and friends, and all they know of each other are minuscule pieces of their lives, half of it learned through other people--and in Sixty’s case, part of that is literal, memories that aren’t his own still stuck in his system.

He wants to learn more.

They part with a sigh, Gavin breathing heavily, and Sixty grins at him. “Are you still interested in my friendship?” he teases.

Gavin laughs softly. “Fuck. I think I’m interested in whatever you’ll give me.”

“Oh,” he says, the word slipping out of his mouth. “I like the sound of that.” He hesitates, uncertain, but Gavin neither looks regretful nor makes any move to part from him, so he pulls him into a hug, sighing as Gavin rests his head on his shoulder.

This behavior would be normal for a couple in a relationship. Sixty isn’t ready to define whatever this is, but he’s more than willing to find out where it could go.

Later, when they’re watching a game on TV and sitting too close together on the couch, Sixty finds himself thrumming softly with contentment, Gavin’s hand in his.

Maybe he has a reason to celebrate after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm very pleased with how this turned out and absolutely delighted with the incredible artwork.
> 
> Title borrowed from ["Kalaam" by Mashrou' Leila](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4iey2FAeGqk)
> 
> You can find myself and the artist on twitter as @gildedfrost and @chromaberrant
> 
> [Fullsize image](https://i.imgur.com/WHzhlR5.png)


End file.
